Macau
by ClemB
Summary: An evening at Olivia's brings Peter to reveal some of his past adventures - pun intended.


A/N : Kira wanted to know how Peter learnt Chinese...

A big thank you to Kira and LeeLee for the beta, and to Teriak47 and his sister for the Chinese.

Reviews would make me **extremely** happy!

Disclaimer : no copyright infringement intended.

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><p>"Oh my God! What was that?" Olivia exclaimed, breathless. Peter let himself fall backward on the bed, his head hitting the pillow, Olivia laid head-to-tails, both struggling to catch their breath.<p>

The evening had begun cozily, both sharing chinese take-away in front of the T.V. as they enjoyed the few days off Broyles had granted them. Peter had offered to order dinner while she picked a movie from on-demand, and she had been surprised to hear him speak and even crack a joke in a fluent Mandarin while he ordered. She knew he spoke Chinese – so did she, courtesy of her FBI training; she could ask a few questions and vaguely understand the answers – but she didn't know the extent of his talent. She could make out chow mein and foo yung, as well as a few basic words, and she shook her head, smiling; he never ceased to amaze her.

Quickly enough, Peter was kissing her neck, distracting her from the bad movie playing on the screen, and was soon leading her to the bedroom by the hand. They hastily undressed on their way, scattering the wooden floor of her apartment with the offending pieces of cloth. To spend the evening at Olivia's place certainly had its ups, including not having Walter feel he needed to chaperone them.

"God, I haven't done that in a long time." Peter brought his left hand to his chest, trying to calm his pounding heart as his right hand played with Olivia's foot. They both giggled like teenagers, their blood full of endorphins.

"Where did you learn it?" Olivia asked from the foot of the bed, leaning on her elbows to look at Peter. His face was flushed, glistening with sweat and his eyes shone in post-coital bliss. "Macau," he said evasively.

"China? Is that where you learned to speak Mandarin?" His answer had piqued her curiosity, and she was now staring at him, expecting him to answer. They had agreed to share everything with each other, and even if Olivia had easily opened up about her past, most of Peter's past whereabouts remained a mystery to her.

"Oh, it's a long story," he sighed and lifted his head as Olivia untangled her legs from his, crawling to rest her head next to his pillow. Stealing a languorous kiss from him, she brought her body closer and placed her leg between his as her right hand played with the hair on his chest.

"We have the whole night." she whispered, trying to read his face. He could skillfully elude her request, as he had done so often, but he wanted to be honest with her, as ignominious as some of his past might be. With a sigh, Peter gave in, his mind rewinding to almost a decade back.

The evening was warm and moist like most of the day had been. He was sprawled on a bed, linen sheets rough against his skin, a noticeable contrast from the smooth skin of his lover rubbing against him.

"You are going to be the death of me," he said, a breathless laugh escaping his lips. The woman smiled and pushed his damp hair back from his forehead, kissing him lightly. They had been sharing her bed for a few weeks, enjoying the benefits of their temporary partnership; they were slowly building a swindle that would ensure him a few months of vacation on some tropical island, and she could start the new life she had dreamt of.

Peter had been gambling in Macau for a few days when he had met her at a casino bar on a late evening - or early morning, he could not remember. She came from the Village, a suburb in the city of Shenzen, where she had learnt to reproduce famous artworks; Van Gogh and Vermeer held no secrets from her. He had been looking for a way to make quick, easy money, and what was better than a few days of tricking some Black Jack games in a Chinese casino?

He was young, running from one continent to another, and enjoyed his life. He had no string, no obligation; he could go wherever he pleased and do whatever he wanted. He had been a teacher at the famous Massachusetts Institute of Technology, flew cargo ships across the Indian Ocean, and was now trying make some savings to take a well deserved vacation.

Peter liked to compare himself to the main character of a T.V. show he'd once caught in the U.S. - one who could take any identity he wished. Jarod had been kidnapped as a kid, raised by strangers in a hostile environment. He had managed to escape and was trying to locate his mother, faking his way into innumerous professions, defending the weak, fighting against injustices. Peter was far from sharing the hero's leitmotif; he was a selfish man and running from the ghost of his mother, but his genius allowed him to play people like he played a set of cards on the green mat of a gambling room.

Sighing, Peter let his head rest comfortably onto his lover's chest, lulled by the rhythmic beat of her heart. He felt her shift under him, and he looked at her questioningly.

"Nĭ xiūxi," she said with a smile. Chuckling, he nodded; he would not be able to move from the bed so fast anyway, and she knew it too well. "Wǒ yǒu yīxiē huà de shì."

He smiled as he watched her leave the bed, sashaying out of the room. They had been playful lovers, enjoying each other's presence during the building of their deal, but he was no man to stick around for too long, and both knew that as soon as the transaction was done, they would bid their farewell and never see each other again.

He woke up a few minutes later – or maybe it was hours, he could not tell. The tiny window of the room was open, letting in the far hubbub of the city; honking cars and bicycles bells were mixing with the usual chatter of the busy streets. It was well into the night, the dark blue sky giving it away. Mei's house was located in a suburb of Macau, lost between the end of the city and the beginning of the paddy fields; the air was always filled with dampness, and combined with the days usually being warm, the overall atmosphere was suffocating.

Peter reached for the nightstand - an old wooden box sitting next to the mattress laying on the floor - and grabbed his pack of cigarettes. Sliding one out of the worn red and white pack, he placed it between his lips before opening the cap of his lighter. It was one of the few things he dearly kept with him all the times, a Zippo he had from the grandfather he never met; it reminded him where he was from, and whom he didn't want to become

Letting out a long puff of smoke, he resolved to get up and check on Mei's painting. Once she started, she could become so absorbed by her task that she would forget the tickling clock on the book shelf and lose track of the time; as expected, she was humming to herself, a long wooden brush in one hand, a colour-covered palette in the other.

Sneaking behind her, he wrapped his arm around her waist and placed his chin on her shoulder, admiring her work. She used to copy up to thirty paintings every day, working amongst five hundred other young people in a noisy hangar, and had quickly grown tired of that life – working like a maniac and barely making any money out of it. She was an artist; she wanted to take her time to paint, to recreate each detail to perfection. Mai wanted to give birth to her own paintings, imaginary landscapes filled with anonymous faces, souvenirs from her childhood blurred by the passing time.

"Zhè shì fēicháng hào le," Peter said as he kissed her shoulder softly, taking her work in. Impressionism had always been her forte, she had told him as much. It didn't really matter to him which was her field of expertise – as long as she was the best. But being an amateur himself, he took great pleasure in seeing the painting grow on the canvas.

Her deft hands worked swiftly, the tip of the flat brush digging into some paint, sometimes mixing two tints together, before applying soft touches to the dried crust of paint applied the previous day. Swiftly, a water lily appeared underneath a pond, floating on green water, shadowed by a springtime grown weeping willow. The hard trick was the reflected sunlight on the water and shadows of the trees dancing on the rails of the pond, but she mastered that as well as the rest of the painting.

She pushed herself back, deeper into his chest, and surveyed her work, correcting a leaf or adding a touch to the grass on the bank. "Fantastic is not what I'd say, but I think it looks good enough."

"You are too hard on yourself," Peter told her, straightening behind her. He let go of her and went to prepare a late snack; they were both young, carefree and thriving on adrenaline, and their eating and sleeping schedules were as reckless as their way of living.

The next day, everything was in place, the painting finished. Peter had made contact with a willing purchasing party a few days before, and his background story was covered. As far as everybody knew, he was Pierre Delacour, a French-American art expert who worked on the black market, selling stolen paintings he'd replaced with fake ones during his valuations.

Mei would not have needed him if she knew how to bluff; unfortunately for her - and thankfully for Peter - she was a terrible liar, which was why he had asked her to remain quiet during the whole exchange. He had taught her English and she had taught him the basics of Mandarin so they could both understand what was going on, and trust each other. Peter had learned the hard way not to trust anyone in his life - not even the woman he was sharing a bed with.

The transaction went smoothly, and they pocketed the forty million without a hitch. It was almost too easy, and he couldn't help but remain on guard as they made their way back to Mei's house. They had taken a big risk by playing with a well known painting; Monet's work was famous, and Peter had the nagging feeling that something was wrong.

They secured the money in a self-deposit box in a third-rate casino downtown where nobody would think of looking for it. It was a necessary precaution he always took in case somebody tried to double-cross him. He would make the transaction and lay low for a few days, which gave him plenty of time to figure out where to go next and make the arrangement for his escape - meaning a new ID and transportation.

They exited the casino through the service door into a grimy back alley and run back to her house, holding hands and laughing freely as the soft breeze coming from the ocean washed over their skin, adding to their euphoria. They made love almost all night long, the adrenaline still pumping through their system keeping them awake, and as dawn finally broke the even horizon, Peter knew something was wrong. He had replayed the exchange again and again in his head and remembered a tall guy lurking in the back, half hiding behind a large potted plant. He had spotted another one, at the far end of the lobby, reading a three day old newspaper - Peter remembered the new airport opening displayed on front page.

Sitting up on the mattress, he barely had time to rouse Mei from her slumber before dark shadows barged into the house from every door and window, leaving them no chance to escape. A few seconds later, his face was pushed roughly against a wall, his hands cuffed behind his back. He was somewhat relieved to spot the word jǐngchá on one of the officer's shirt - at least he would not be shot and dumped from an old rusty van in the river that day.

"I spent a few weeks in jail there - not my best memories, but I got freed quickly, what with being an American and all." Peter finished his tale, Olivia's head now resting on his chest as she listened to his voice resonate below her ear.

"What happened to her, to Mei?" she asked as she moved to look at his face, propped on her elbow. She had listened to him for what felt like hours, imagining a younger him conning people in Asia.

"That night was the last time I saw her. I was expelled by the Chinese authorities and advised to never come back, but I arranged for her way out of prison. With our deal, I had plenty of cash to buy a few favours from the local judge; I made sure she got out of there. I hope she got what she wanted – the artist's life she was dreaming about."

She could hear a pang of nostalgia in his voice; was he regretting his old way of living, or that he never got to see that woman again? she pondered.

"Hey, don't look so glum!" Peter said, vainly trying to hide his moroseness behind a chuckle. "I had no intention of staying there anyway; it was just another deal." She looked at him, then, her eyes traveling his face, trying to find answers she did not dare voicing. Has she taken him away from a life he loved, or was he indifferent? Did he wish he had never met her so he could go on with the recklessness of his youth?

"Do you miss it? Your old life?"

His eyes bored into hers. Peter had not expected her to ask him that. Did he miss it? Of course he did. He had spent almost ten years conning people, making easy money and spending it almost as fast as he stole it. He had been free, then, he had no responsibility, no Walter to take care of, no gruesome criminal to run after. But Peter knew that kind of life never lasted; sooner or later he would become another John Doe in some exotic public cemetery – his latest ordeal with Big Eddie had been leading him right down that path.

"I do, sometimes. Money was easy, and I had no care in the world..." he trailed off, not really knowing how to explain things to her.

"Girls would fall into your arms," she added, only half playfully. She could see him have a new adventure each time he moved - a woman in every port.

"They still do." That got him a playful slap in the arm. They laughed and he kissed her lips then, surprising her. He did miss his old life, had lived that way for so long, it had become a part of him; but Peter had been trying to pull out of it when Olivia came after him; he had been trying to erase his debts, planning a few last cons before settling down. Of course, sometimes, he missed the excitement and the thrill of it, but what he had right there, lying in his arms, was worth everything.

"Wǒ ài nǐ," he whispered as he barely pulled back from her, their noses rubbing against one another.

"What does that mean?" He smiled and for the first time, Olivia saw something different in his eyes, a kindness she had rarely witnessed. It vanished as fast as it had appeared and was replaced by the playful expression she had grown accustomed to.

"I'll show you." He rolled and pinned her under him, his lips descending on hers once more.


End file.
